Through a Glass, Darkly
by chrissie
Summary: Satoshi in heels. Takes place during the art museum fiasco set in tankouban...2, I think?


Through a Glass, Darkly  
  
There's something about museums that's just -- old. Though the architecture falls into the clean, sweeping lines of modern taste, though the lighting glints harshly with all its crude fluorescent brilliance, in the end it's the air itself that gives a place atmosphere, and air within these hallowed institutions hold the vast and empty shadows of forgotten ages in its midst. The arching glass-paned windows are irrelevant, the hiss of sliding doors and hidden security devices negligible. In this place, present meets past in a skillful interlacing that renders a person unable to remain on just one plane or the other, meshing tightly in a seamless, fluid wash of reality that stands somewhere outside the normal boundaries of Time.  
  
Satoshi has spent a great deal of his life within these fortresses; sometimes as a student researching art and culture, more often as a member of the law force preventing theft, but mostly it's as the last descendant of the Hikari clan that he treads, cat-soft, among artifacts crafted by hands of astonishingly similar genetic structure to his own. He's been subjected to numerous tests, thorough and impersonal, indicating that he's closer in genetic make-up to his great-grandfather than are most siblings, the same sequence of nucleotides echoing themselves over and over again. Apparently the Hikari strain has bred true against all reason throughout the centuries, as it will undoubtedly continue to do if he ever chooses to propagate.  
  
Hereditary traits tend to become wearying when passed down too many times; it was the Hikari brilliance that planted the seeds for this tiresome war in the beginning, so Satoshi doesn't think much of his own academic degrees, the Hikari determination that carried it on for as long as it's lasted, so he discounts the iron-cold resolve that characterizes his work. His current father says he's Hiwatari now and no longer Hikari -- perhaps even believes it a little -- but that is, to strip it to the core, bullshit. A rose by any other name is still a rose, and a demon under any other pseudonym still a demon.  
  
The sinks in the restroom are unwholesomely white, and a strong, stubborn fragance worms its way through everything, covering the customary stink associated with places like these. Bits and pieces of discarded tissue litter the floor like confetti, a realistic note to balance out the tacky gentility attempted by the architects when they constructed this room, the gaudy elegance. The stalls are unoccupied.   
  
He adds a few finishing touches to his disguise, giving it a critical once-over in the brass-framed mirror that graces the wall. His mother's face glances back at him with cool unconcern. Her claim to beauty had been uncontested in her time, and she's left him her facial structure and fair skin along with other, less desirable qualities. Without the glasses, his eyes seem darker. More predatory. He lowers his lashes, trying for seductive, and ends up grimacing over the ridiculousness of the expression -- like a demure housewife waiting for a husband's beating, or rather a demure princess waiting for a servitor's suicide.  
  
Research, research, he reminds himself; it exists for a reason. Closing his eyes, he recreates Harada's smile, the unconscious coquetry of her gestures, the way she moves with gently swaying hips. Opens them again, and finds that those attitudes look ludicrously out of place on his cold features, his tall bony figure. He's no schoolgirl. He'll never pass for a schoolgirl, regardless of lipstick, powder or push-up bras.  
  
Deeper in the half-forgotten caverns of childhood, memories of his mother stir; he drags them relentlessly forward to bare before the light -- how she laughed, how she spoke, how she bowed her head before flashing out a coy, quicksilver glance that must have sizzled along the nerves of those poor fools who were her victims. In the mirror, his lips trace out a crimson curve.   
  
The resemblance is uncanny. Any moment now, he thinks, he'll hear her languid voice doling out its admonishments.   
  
("The past creates the present, but it is ended, over and done with. Learn from it, but do not dwell on it, and concentrate your attention on the future; mold it to your will. Now, shall we continue with target practice?")  
  
"Yes, mother," and he's surprised when the words come out in a throaty purr almost as if she'd spoken them. Perhaps he really is channeling her spirit tonight, for it's not inconceivable that she would want to take some minor part in the capture of their family's century-old nemesis. The reason he wears glasses has nothing to do with eyesight or attractiveness; for him, too many old ghosts can be resurrected far too easily.  
  
But time is running short, and there's only so much of it that he can waste ogling himself in the pink-tiled confines of a museum restroom. Returning the borrowed make-up into a fashionable ladies' purse he'd managed to snag from a junior officer, he gives the luxuriant tresses of his wig one final, experimental flip before exiting the room, five-inch heels clicking determinedly on a floor of polished marble.  
  
The hallways of the museum are pleasantly dead and abandoned, signifying that Dark has yet to be apprehended. Moonlight filters through Grecian-modelled windows to spill in lazy trails across the decadent interior, a flood pushing back the darkness, and he wonders if this is a foreshadowing of things to come. 'Finish it, finish it,' chant the voices of his ancestors in a fierce chorus, as if he needs their prompting /now/ when they've arranged the entire course of his life to their satisfaction. 'Shut up,' he sends back curtly. Their startled silence provides some measure of gratification even as an instinctive prickling of his spine warns him that the carnage is about to begin.  
  
*****  
  
"Dark! There's Dark! Grab'im, girls!"  
  
Bingo. It's his own personal squad of trained commandos specifically tailored to Dark's weaknesses, right on time, and now all he has to do is wait for the girly screams. He arches an eyebrow as what sounds like a full-sized stampede heads enthusiastically in his direction, shattering the former stillness into a thousand prismatic shards.  
  
To be chased by a horde of doggedly persistent females -- every man's dream, or maybe not, especially if the man in question is still chivalric enough to refrain from harming a lady.  
  
"Hey, what the -- ? Why're they all /women/?" The whine of that customarily unabashed voice is distinctly comical.  
  
But before long the shrieks start up, and he knows that Dark has rallied his masculine forces for a swift round of indiscriminate pinching; probably enjoys it too, the bastard. His squad scatters outwards, squealing and crying; Dark is gathering himself off the floor, looking like a cat with a beard of golden feathers.   
  
Time to make an entrance, then. Tugging out the pre-arranged envelope from a pocket in his custom-tailored suit (quite fetching, he'd been assured by the seamstress), he steps around the corner, into a square of moonlight, focusing all the heat and passion at his command into one sultry smile.  
  
"Looking for something?"   
  
It comes out huskily, thank god, and Dark doesn't seem to recognize either his voice or his face, because if he did, it's a good bet that he'd be rolling on the floor in hysterics right now instead of letting out an unabashed wolf-whistle, accompanied by what can only be described as a leer.  
  
Pervert.  
  
That pervert is standing, now, and sauntering over, raking his eyes across Satoshi's pseudo-female body with an appreciative charm that makes it an effort for him to keep from frowning. "Care to hand that over?" the delinquent purrs in a tone of his voice that says he really expects his sex appeal to be enough of a lure for anyone. Not only a pervert, then, but an /egotistical/ pervert. For a moment Satoshi actually feels proud of his heritage -- see, we've devoted numerous lifetimes to putting this robber, thief, hentai and general all-around menace to society behind bars, and now don't you understand why?  
  
Dark comes closer. And closer. "Children should keep their eyes shut," he remarks suddenly about a foot away, and Satoshi almost blinks before he realizes that that was most likely for the benefit of Niwa. Yes, keep your eyes shut, because this entire farce is embarrassing enough with just one witness.  
  
He's expecting the arms flung out on either side of him, preventing escape.  
  
He's expecting the provocative pose that brings their faces together, almost touching, almost nuzzling.  
  
He's expecting the velveteen smoothness of Dark's voice as he leans forward, smiling, a suave baritone reminiscent of dark, rich chocolate and hedonistic excesses --   
  
"If you don't give it to me," and he's pressing Satoshi against the wall with eyes sparkling, their breaths mingling, and his lips /right there/, "I'll...have to appropriate it...by force."  
  
What he isn't expecting is the sudden, uncontrollable tripping of his heart.  
  
For a moment, the stillness is that of a Parisian mob before the descent of the guillotine, and Satoshi remembers the first merciless onset of puberty, the first time he woke to find the sheets soiled by something that wasn't just sweat, the dreams that had confused his mind and been almost, almost enough to awaken the alter-ego living in his body. For a moment he's disorientated, paralyzed.  
  
Then he sees himself reflected in the golden orbs that are Dark's eyes.  
  
'/Finish/ it,' scream the ghosts in his head, and his family's talents are his talents, his family's sins are his sins, and his family's enemies are most emphatically his enemies. The hostility is instantly there like a hot iron burning up his chest, regardless of the fact that he's perfectly aware how little of it belongs solely to his own emotions, his own time; he reaches for the ice at the core of him and immerses himself in its soothing chill.  
  
("Satoshi," said his mother, patting his head while she stood crisp and cool in a sleeveless summer dress. "The meaning of 'Hikari' is 'Ice Hunter'. Remember that always, won't you?")  
  
Immobility is shattered.  
  
"You're completely vulnerable like this, Dark," he speaks, painted lips parting in a parody of a kiss. In one liquid motion he's whipped out his trusty handcuffs and fastened Dark's wrist to the iron grate beside them, ignoring the vague, fading whisper of something fleeting and unnamed, focusing instead on Dark's expression which is...amusing, for lack of a better word.   
  
"The shooting of the ad would have required police assistance, no matter what." The words flows out smooth and slick as the surface of a mirror. "And we knew you'd come to retrieve this," he holds up the envelope, "in order to protect the person inside from being seen."  
  
The thief can keep his cool, he'll give him that; already shock has given way to an insouciant grin that suggests he has nothing better to do than spend the night here, cuffed to a pole.   
  
"Kinky. I'd never have suspected it of you, Hiwatari Chief-sama," he drawls out, giving Satoshi's garb another blatant survey, this time ironic rather than insolent. Pushing back the heavy locks of false hair, Satoshi permits himself a smile, not quite able to believe that finally, after all these centuries, he has managed to capture the legendarily elusive Dark. Dark is his. The thrill of that thought slips almost beyond control and he clamps down on it firmly, regulating his excitement.  
  
Things aren't quite over yet; he reaches once more into his pocket. "You escape every time we talk too much, so I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to take a little nap." The container in his hand looks and works exactly like a perfume bottle, if one overlooks the minor detail that one whiff of its scent can put a man out for well over half an hour. Best to be cautious. It's been three times already that Dark has escaped from him at the moment of supposed capture, and he doesn't know if he can take a fourth.  
  
Alarm flickers in those golden eyes beneath the cockiness, and Dark's smile is beginning to seem forced. "...You know, if you were a woman, you'd be my type."  
  
"Flatterer."  
  
But just as his finger begins to press down, someone else cuts in.  
  
"Hiwatari-kun."  
  
He spins around at that familiar voice, a nasty shock settling in his stomach. No. It can't be. It can't be. He's so close, and he can /feel/ that the person he's trapped is the real Dark --  
  
The youth standing to his left is of a height with Niwa, dressed in the same T-shirt and oversized trousers as Dark. Satoshi can't see his face, but that's because it's been concealed by a smooth, oval mask that his trained eyes identify immediately as an original. The Moonlight Mask; no doubt at all. Something inside him is cracking, falling apart, like the springtime breaking of ice, with sharp, jagged edges and unfathomable depths underneath.  
  
"That person there...isn't Daisuke." The mask comes away slowly, the features beneath it revealing themselves one by one. Niwa.  
  
So he's failed again. In a pane of glass behind Niwa, his mother stares at him with accusing eyes.  
  
Then Niwa starts to run, and he follows like he should, like he must, but not before casting one more look at the fake Dark, restrained to the grate, remembering that one instant of hesitant, unlooked for emotion. And it wasn't him after all.  
  
Satoshi resumes the chase, but there's something in his chest that feels strangely like...  
  
He's not sure what.  
  
*****  
  
Down the hall and over the stairs they go, and damn if Niwa isn't an accomplished runner, whereas /he/ was stupid enough to tog himself out in platform shoes. To be sure, they contributed to the disguise, but the disguise was a flop and now he doesn't have the time to just stop and kick them off. He expects to break an ankle every time they skid around another corner.  
  
The modern art gallery flashes by, as do the the jade exhibit, the samurai section, and the Hall of Emperors where dozens of imperial eyes glare down at them. Off in the distance, the hullabaloo raised by the rest of the police force grows fainter and fainter. He gives the blueprint in his mind a quick check-up -- they're heading into the more remote parts of the museum, storage rooms and offices where the hiding places are many and varied. Trust a thief to know his geography.  
  
Five minutes later, he's no longer running; instead he's treading as lightly as he can down a long, shadowed corridor, and Niwa has ducked out of sight. Too many hallways to check, too many doors to open, but he hasn't been preparing for this hunt all his life for nothing; instinct guides him, and for once he discards logic to follow it. His feet take him down a side-passage virtually indistinguishable from all the others, and he tells his instincts that they'd better be prepared to undergo some extensive training if this turns out to be another mare's nest.  
  
/You've already failed once today./  
  
Threats must be the way to go, because down another corner he turns, and presto! There's Niwa, playing statue. Choking down the involuntary adrenaline surge, he leans towards the boy, who looks so scared that he refrains from the efficient brutality he would have used on Dark.  
  
"It's not you I want to arrest. Just give me the mask."  
  
Has being a gentleman ever worked for anyone? With a small 'eep!' of surprise, Niwa's on the run again, and Satoshi is berating himself for breaking the first rule he learned in police academy -- never take pity on a perp.  
  
The chase continues.  
  
At least, it does until he takes yet another corner to see Harada Risa stepping cheerfully forward, straight into the security beams that are set to trigger the trap below --  
  
"No! Harada, stay back!" he cries out. Too late, of course.  
  
Splash, and splash, and "Ow!", and Niwa is home free with the Moonlight Mask in possession while Hiwatari Satoshi, Chief of Police and last surviving member of the Hikari family, sits dripping in a well, in drag, alone with the person responsible for his current situation, unable even to blame her for anything because she's a girl.  
  
Leaning back against the moss-covered wall, he draws up his knees, then closes his eyes. His skirts rustle. For perhaps the first time in his life, Satoshi wants to cry.  
  
Overhead, the fireworks begin.  
  
*****  
  
"Is the museum full of these booby traps?" asks Harada later, as they both sit hip-deep in the dank water, waiting for rescue. The stars wink mockingly from far above the well's opening. She's shown a surprising presence of mind; most females would probably be screaming by now, and his estimate of her rises a notch. He's had time to reorganize his thoughts, and can admit that he was just as guilty of stupidity this night as she.  
  
"They aren't much use against an opponent like Dark, but they serve as reassurance."  
  
She muffles a sneeze that shakes her whole body. "I wonder how long it'll be until I see him again." The wistful tone in her voice strikes a chord in him that he'd rather not acknowledge and he stands, dripping water, to remove the heavy jacket of his suit.  
  
"Dark? Who knows? This is just one more time I've let him escape."  
  
She's not done yet, though, gazing at him with something approaching sympathy. "Maybe we're both trapped in a hopeless relationship...with him," she says softly, startlingly. Her eyes are disappointed, but there's more than a hint of determination there as well.  
  
It's a familiar expression, and his sudden shiver has nothing to do with the cold. "Maybe," he drapes the jacket over her thin shoulders before turning away.   
  
That was possibly unwise, for he catches the widening of her eyes, the swift realization dawning.   
  
"...Did the investigation of femininity help, 'Hi-wa-ta-ri-kun'?"  
  
She sees him. In a wig, in a dress, out of glasses, she sees past the disguise to Hiwatari Satoshi, high school student. "Not very much, I'm afraid," he replies honestly.  
  
"/You/ -- "  
  
Her fists are unexpectedly strong, he discovers, and her displeasure foreseeably vocal. The water ripples around his calves as he dodges, blurring the reflection within.  
  
  
End 


End file.
